


Point

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Don't copy to other sites, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 04:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: Romana/Leela-knife play (Romana likes dangerous women)





	Point

She looked at the knife in Leela's hand, the worn blade with the sun-bright whetted edge, poised about to throw, and thought with a trembling of pure excitement: that could be the end of me.

 

* * *

 

Romana had been shocked to find a human being permitted to stay on Gallifrey, when she finally returned from her long voluntary exile in E-space. Even if that human had been a companion to her Doctor – she corrected herself: the Doctor, not quite hers, not now or ever. Even if that human had somehow managed to convince Andred, one of the Citadel Guards, to marry her.

But the Time Lords seemed to tolerate her. More, they seemed almost to fear her. Which was ridiculous, of course: one woman, a mere human, could be no real threat. But there was something about her, something disturbing that she couldn't find the words to express, not even to herself.

She finally sought advice from Braxiatel, who looked at her sideways and then snidely said that the 'savage' had found a Library machine that had read books aloud to her. Old books, the sort of literature that was out of favour these days: books about violence, upheaval, assassination, murder.

"She probably knows more about killing than anyone else on this planet," he finally summarized and then sloped off, long robes whispering around him like secrets.

After that, Romana found her eyes lingering on Leela more and more often, in corridors, at gatherings. That taste of danger, of change around her: it was the same she had felt in the Doctor's presence, as he heedlessly put himself and her into mortal danger again and again, smiling as time twisted around him and his own death snapped at his heels. Sometimes she wondered if that was why she had chosen to regenerate so soon, decades before it was really necessary; was it to remind herself that she had a way to cheat death?

She looked at Leela's hands, hanging at rest at her sides, their calloused fingers and blunt nails a shocking contrast to richly embroidered robes, and sensed in them the will of a killer. The will to kill, to end, to take all that a life could be and just snuff it out like a vagrant ember, an unwanted flower withering in her grasp. She was – so strong. As terrifyingly strong as a storm, or the ocean.

Romana looked at those hands and wondered: what would it be like to feel them against her skin? To have those hands part her thighs, run up her body and cup her breasts, caress her face – and she looked in to Leela's face, and knew with a sudden thrill that Leela knew what she was thinking.

Romana turned away, her heavy flared collar hiding her expression. She – some humans were telepathic, but she hadn't read Romana's mind. She had just – known. With relief, she turned to the next man to approach her, hoping the conversation would take her mind off what she was thinking.

It was Brellis, one of the younger Time Lords who strained like a beast at a leash to enter the labyrinthine steps and levels of Gallifreyan politics. He was normal enough looking, face properly painted, robes just so. But he had a way of accenting particular words, and letting his eyes linger on her neck and lips a bit longer than necessary.

Then he asked her something shockingly improper – about her relationship with 'that old crazy man' by which he meant the Doctor – and Romana realised that he was mashing on her. No doubt about it. And there were many protocols for extracting yourself gracefully from a conversation, in a gathering of Time Lords of this rank and age, but none of them related to sex. It just wasn't supposed to come up.

Brellis was closer now, the rim of his glass touching the back of her hand, his breath on her face, and she was wondering what would happen if she just jabbed three fingers into his – no, the robes would muffle the blow – when they were interrupted.

"Is everything all right here?" A woman's voice, very light, with an exotic accent. Her face was politely smiling, her body relaxed, but her eyes were blue death, the eyes of a skull staring into Brellis', and without a word he swallowed and backed away.

"Thank you," Romana said, willing her hands to stop trembling.

There were many proper and ceremonial answers to that that Leela could have used. She could have said "It was nothing," or "I did nothing," or "I wonder where Brellis is going?" or even the simple "You're welcome."

Leela did none of those things.

She stared into Romana's face and smiled, the smile of someone seeing beauty. "My pleasure," she said, and their shoulders barely brushed as she turned away.

That was how it began between them.

 

* * *

 

At first they met in dark corridors, leaning close against each other and letting their hands wander free over bodies shockingly bare under their outer robes. Romana was terrified of discovery, and then mortified when she found that Leela has asked Andred if they could meet in her chamber; she walked away, face tight and thighs wet, and didn't speak to Leela for days.

When she found out why her new friend was so upset, Leela was angry in her turn. Why would she deceive her husband about her heart? They were all adults, and it was not as though Romana was going to get her with child – the sound of those words in Leela's mouth set Romana into convulsions of laughter, and laughing she finally agreed to the new tryst.

But she made sure all the doors were locked first.

Under her robes Leela was sleek and brown, scars tracking over her limbs like lifelines. They were, Romana thought: each one was the mark of a not-death, of life continuing after death. She traced those lines with her fingers, and with her lips. The strong muscles rolling under that skin shivered under her touch like frightened birds, like clouds, like smoke. And Leela in her turn explored Romana's body, the soft skin under her arms, the curve of her hips, her sweet salt centre.

They lay close and touched, lay closer and kissed, and then just lay pressed skin to skin and breathed, feeling the shift of their breasts tight to each other, the strong four-way clench of their thighs, and revelled in each other without motion or words.

During one of those meetings, Romana's fingers found a strange pattern of grooves in Leela's thigh. Not scars – she knew every scar by heart now.

"What are these?" she asked, stroking with just the tips of her fingers.

"Pressure marks. I changed my knife harness, and sewed my robes to – what's wrong?" She had seen Romana's face go white under her tousled blonde hair.

"You wear a weapon here? Now?"

"Yes. Always. I am a warrior and a wife, and I must defend myself and my loves. All my loves," she said, and suddenly kissed Romana, over and over again, and Romana kissed back. Fast and excited kisses, but when her mouth was free, she asked, "May I see your knife?"

Leela took her request seriously, not as a game: she pulled the sheath from her folded clothes (Romana noticed at once that she could reach the hilt without leaving the bed) and drew it. Together they looked at it. Not a fancy weapon, plain and practical: the base of the blade showed hammer marks from where a new hilt had been shaped onto it. Leela explained the weapon's history, and watched Romana's face, her fascinated eyes.

"Could I touch it?" And Leela said yes, and watched as soft fingers stroked the cold blade.

"And could you touch me with it?"

Leela paused for a long moment, and then carefully raised the knife and touched the flat of it to Romana's face. She could see the flush rise under her skin, see her redden as she slowly slid the cold sharp edge down her neck, and her nipples rose as Leela raised the blade and let just the tip graze between her breasts.

She stopped there, the tip of the knife a single cold point against Romana's skin. She stopped and she waited, watching Romana shiver, watching her hips twitch, seeing her hands clench in the sheets. Then she raised the knife and put it aside, and Romana opened her eyes to see Leela frowning at her.

"I have known men who were excited by knives, but never women," she said flatly. "Is it only-"

"No, no. It's not only the knife. It's you, all of you. And – and the knife." And Romana leaned forward and kissed her lover, and was kissed back. They lay tight against each other, busy fingers working between each other's legs, and Romana did not once glance at the knife that lay just within reach. She did not need to. She knew it was there.

As they grew to know and love each other's bodies with greater skill, they used toys: tiny vibrating eggs, long curved cylinders of ceramic or glass, gloves covered with needle-sharp points. But again and again Romana asked for the knife, and Leela gave it to her. She gave it to her skin, touching her neck and her heels and drawing intricate patterns of cold across the small of her back; she gave it to her mouth (carefully, lying on their sides so there was no way for either of them to fall onto the blade) and let her taste the steel; she even held the hilt between her own thighs, making the knife jut from her groin like a fin, and caressed Romana's thighs in turn.

Again and again Romana tried to explain the appeal of the knife to her. The knowledge that the knife was deadly dangerous, and Leela as well, but that she would not be hurt, could never be hurt: that she could surrender herself, herself and the weight of new responsibilities that constantly seemed to be her lot, and just be a woman at the mercy, sweetest mercy, of her sweet sweet love. Leela smiled and caressed her, and reassured herself that the touch of her hands and tongue brought Romana as much pleasure as the metal.

Now, tonight, they played the scariest, most exciting game. Romana stood tight against one wall, pinned there by her own will, and Leela threw the knife, spinning like a flower or a great flickering butterfly, snapping through the air and then sinking into the panelling. Again and again the knife flashed towards her, landing with a solid thump point-deep into the wall by ear or hand or thigh. Again and again Leela strode forward to reclaim the knife, bare and sweating, pressing herself wordlessly against Romana's body. Sometimes she caressed her lover with the knife, and sometimes she simply retrieved it and returned to throw again.

Every time the knife came towards her, Romana could see the flashing future, the possibility of her lifetime ending, everything gone: no more meals or laughter or music or love, just herself and the bright steel piercing her. It might happen – was on the point of happening – did not happen, again and again; and that risk was ambrosia wine, volcano heat and flames in her heart.

The knife spun towards her and planted itself between her spread thighs and she nearly fell, tottering, feeling that lancing probability strike into the core of her. But Leela was there in an instant, holding her up, holding her close. Breathless, they closed their thighs and felt the cold steel between them, hilt and blade: and rubbed against each other, mouth to mouth and body to body, until they both came.


End file.
